Being Sick Bites
by Jamie552
Summary: They were coming up on their fourth day of bad health and after heatedly denying what was so obviously true, Sammy had finally admitted it. He had the flu. One-Shot.


**Author's Note:** Hey all! Hope you're all gearing up for an awesome long weekend (those that have one, that is). The weather here in Toronto has been pretty gross, so I don't think my weekend will be too spectacular, but I'll keep my fingers crossed! This fic is something random that I started working on a while ago and finally finished. I don't know how I really feel about it, but I thought I'd share it.

Actually, I was _forced_ to share it (Amy! :D)

Hope you like it!

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, so I still don't own them. Not even close.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

The small motel room, Dean happily noted, was still vaguely dark as he quietly let himself in. He carried two bags in his hands - a small plastic bag from the local drug store, and a brown paper bag from the diner only a few minutes drive down the street.

As he pulled the ancient key from the older and even more decrepit lock, both bags crinkled noisily in his hand. He glared down at them, as if mentally telling them off for making such a sound.

The room had a feeling to it, an atmosphere he'd felt a thousand times.

Sick.

Sam was _sickly_.

High fever, a runny nose, muscle aches and general misery.

They were coming up on their fourth day of bad health and after heatedly denying what was so obviously true, little Sammy had finally admitted it.

He had the flu.

It had only taken having a voice that sounded like sandpaper on concrete and throwing up everything he'd ever _thought_ of eating on an hourly basis to convince him.

But by Winchester standards of stubbornness, it was actually pretty reasonable.

Still focusing on being as quiet as he could, Dean didn't notice the pathetic lump on the far bed sit up just slightly, a pair of fever-glazed eyes peering at him from over a pile of blankets. "Dean?"

He looked over, setting the plastic bag down onto the small wooden table. "You awake over there?" Sam nodded slowly, doing what he could to curl back into his blankets and keep his eyes on his older brother at the same time.

Despite the fact that he was a couple inches over six feet tall, Sam was surprisingly childlike when sick.

Dean smiled fondly. "How you feelin'?"

"I'm at death's door-" Sam forced a response, his voice nasal. "-but the bouncers won't let me in 'cause I don't look cool enough."

Dean laughed gently and shook his head, shedding his leather jacket and hanging it on the back of one of the chairs. "Stay away from that velvet rope, Sammy."

The only response then was a pain-filled groan.

"I got you some soup from the diner for dinner; you gotta get somethin' in your stomach."

There was a quiet sniffle. "Why? So I can throw it up thirty seconds after swallowing?"

"Y'know, you're cranky when you're sick."

"Shut up, Dean."

Reaching into the paper bag, Dean pulled out the two small styrofoam containers and the ridiculously pointless plastic spoons he'd grabbed from a dispenser on the diner counter. He'd gotten chicken noodle, sure it was the best choice—one, because it was the universal food to give someone when sick…and two, the only other soup they served was split-pea and since the smell had made Dean nauseas when he was healthy, he could only _imagine_ how nauseas it would make Sam.

He crossed the room, watching as Sam slowly and carefully struggled into a sitting position leaning back against the headboard. "Just…try and eat it slowly, dude." Dean passed the container and watched as Sam took the first spoonful, his hand shaking slightly. The older brother's eyes narrowed in concern. "You ok?"

Sam nodded, cautiously raising the steaming spoon to his lips. "Yeah, I'm ok."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Sam sent him a small, reassuring smile. "Thanks."

Dean stood guard and watched him swallow a few more small mouthfuls before tearing his worried eyes away and heading back towards the small dining table.

His own bowl of soup was sitting there waiting and as he sat down he pulled off the plastic lid. Steam rose in hypnotizing wisps and he stirred it carefully, making sure he didn't spill any. It looked appetizing enough.

"So what'd you get?"

"Chicken noodle, same as you-"

"No, what'd you get at the drug store."

Quickly swallowing a mouthful of hot soup, Dean nearly sputtered at the feeling of his throat blistering. He gave a small cough. "Talked to the pharmacist-" Setting down his spoon and still coughing, he reached out and grabbed the plastic bag. "Got you some Tylenol, picked up your prescription."

"What's it say?"

Dean read Sam's prescription pill bottle, scanning over the name and directions with a skillful eye. "Called… _Symmetrel_?—take with food, don't operate badass Chevys or clean and shoot firearms while under the influence…may cause drowsiness and hours of intense boredom for awesome big brothers."

"Sounds…_great_."

Dean chuckled suddenly and at Sam's confused expression, he started to read the bottle out loud again. _"May increase sexual urges."_ There was an abrupt tint of red in the younger man's cheeks. "Oh, this could get interesting."

"Be quiet."

"Only good times to be had in Oklahoma."

Sam let out a little brother sigh, that loosely translated meant "_this totally bites_". Dean very nearly made the same kind of sound but as he raised his eyes and watched his brother place his half-eaten bowl of soup on the bedside table, he couldn't find the energy to be annoyed. Sammy looked truly pitiful and every big brother in the entire world was vulnerable to rough coughs, violent sneezes and throwing up.

It was in the rule book. If little brother is sick? Hole up, force-feed him crackers and fluids and start buying tissues by the case.

Sam was already half-way through his tenth box.

_Eww. Snot rag central._

"Can't we just-" Sam's voice was scratchy (Dean made a face in sympathy) and the kid cleared his throat and tried again. "Can't we just pack and get in the car?"

"And go where?"

"I don't care. Anywhere but _here_."

"Well, that's definitive."

The younger brother tried his best to scowl, but only came across as looking ill.

"Look, man, I know you wanna get outta here. But we don't have anywhere to be and you're sick as a pig." Sam scowled again. "Let's just take the time and cool out for a bit."

"Easy for you to say."

"It's _not _easy for me to say. I wanna get outta here as much as you do, this town is boring as hell."

Squirming down into his blankets again, Sam said, "I'd be better off in the car, Dean, you know that."

"Right, so driving to _nowhere_, stopping whenever your stomach gets the weeble-wobbles. That's better for you?"

"It's better than lyin' here all friggin' day."

Dean couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his brother's words, not to mention the annoyed tone of his voice. "Next time _I_ get sick, _you're_ stayin' somewhere else."

Sam frowned at him from across the room. "What? Why?"

"You're startin' to sound too much like me, dude, it's freakin' me out."

Sam snorted, the action making him cough slightly. "Yeah? How's it feel bein' on the receiving end of the attitude for once?"

"I just said you'd be stayin' somewhere else, didn't I?"

The expression that came across Sam's face at that moment had Dean smirking to himself and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, balancing precariously back on two legs. "You gonna eat any more?"

"I don't think I can."

"You should, you haven't eaten all that much the last couple days." He shook the prescription pill bottle pointedly, the contents rattling. "Not to mention you gotta take _these_ with food."

"How I can feel this friggin' awful and not be dead?"

Letting out a sigh, Dean brought his chair back down to four legs with a light bang. "Well, hopefully that idiot doctor at the clinic knew what he was doin' and you'll start feelin' better."

"Hope so."

"And all I can say, dude, is that you better not get _me_ sick. I haven't been sick in a year and a half-"

"Then I should sneeze on you, just on principle."

"You do that, I'll hide the kleenex."

"You hide the kleenex, I'll use the inside lining of your jacket."

Dean's eyes narrowed. He was instantly serious. "You do and I'll kick your flu-ridden ass, how 'bout that?"

Sam couldn't help but laugh, snuggling back under the blankets. "Yeah, alright, whatever."

"I mean it, Sam, stay the hell away from my jacket!"

"Keep your hands off my tissue box, then." He cleared his throat. "So…did you look into the history of the library?"

"Guess while the geek machine's outta commission, I got no choice, huh?"

"Dean-"

Waving a hand in a 'just relax' kind of gesture, Dean said, "George Petrakis. Librarian. Born right here in town, 1819. Died in 1882; hung himself in the library's basement."

Sam blinked interestedly.

Dean tried to overlook how adorable the expression was.

"Rumor has it, his wife, Rose, sent him a _"dear John"_ letter admitting to a fling with another guy here in town. Didn't get a name."

"So he killed himself 'cause his wife was unfaithful?"

"Who knows." Dean shrugged. "Haunted library basement? Seems a little too _Ghostbusters_ for me, dude."

"And now he's terrorizing people who come into the library?"

"Seems more like a poltergeist than anythin' else—telekinetic movement, books flyin' all over the place…strange sounds…desks shaking, freakin' people out."

"Sounds charming." There was a slight squeaking sound from Sam's nose as he inhaled. He immediately looked embarrassed at the noise and spoke quickly before Dean could comment. "So if it's a spirit, we gotta find where he was buried."

"Sammy, this town has a grand total of _two_ cemeteries and a stop light. I don't think it'll be hard."

"You already know, don't you?"

"St. Agnes Church Cemetery."

Sam couldn't help but smile just slightly. "And where's that?"

"Head down the main road, hang a left at that stop light I was tellin' you about…can't miss it."

"Well once the sun sets we'll head over-"

"_We_? What the hell d'you mean, _we_?"

Blinking owlishly in genuine confusion, Sam raised his head slightly. "Well…you and me, we can go get rid of Petrakis-"

"_I'll_ go and get rid of him, _you're_ stayin' right there-"

"You're not going alone, Dean-"

"Dude." Dean frowned in annoyance. "It's a _spirit_—a layer of salt, a flare of a match and it's game over. It's nothin'."

"Petrakis is violent-"

"He's a sixty-three year old _librarian_ that's throwin' around first editions and shakin' desks. I've gone after worse on my own."

"Yeah…except now you don't have to."

The moment the words were out of Sam's mouth, Dean's chest tightened.

Damn his annoyingly adorable and sickly little brother for making him feel all soft.

Usually it was next to impossible to expose Dean's soft underbelly—the part of him that connected with people and those who suffered at the hands of the supernatural. He'd been suffering since he was four years old and his ability to sympathize with others, even though _sympathizing_ wasn't usually his forte, was something he kept well hidden, only showing it to those few people he deemed worthy enough to see it.

Kids were especially a weakness of his.

There'd been several over the last couple years that had tugged on his heart strings and forced his compassion to the surface. Little guys that had reminded him of _himself_, taking care of things the best they could with what they had—Michael in Fitchburg, Wisconsin, for example, held a permanent place in Dean Winchester's memory. The kid had nearly lost his little brother, Asher, to the Shrtiga that had almost taken _Sam_ once upon a time.

And that in itself was enough to form a build-up of affection.

But it was always Sammy that managed to bring it out the most.

And a _sickly_ Sammy with eyes ten times bigger and wetter than usual, not to mention that ridiculously fantastic nose-squeak every time he breathed?

Dean didn't stand a chance.

If Sam's gaze got any softer, he'd turn into a marshmellow.

A pink, very fluffy marshmellow.

Dean swallowed thickly and shook his head, trying to appear unaffected. "No, I know that. But still, you're not goin'. You're stayin' in bed so we can _hopefully _get the hell outta here after the stark-raving psycho is outta the way."

Sam let out a small cough and shook his head. "I'm coming with you."

Dean was torn—he wanted to scowl at his little brother's sheer stubbornness, but then he wanted to wince in sympathy at the horrendously painful scratchiness of Sam's cough.

Naturally, the scratchy throat won.

Grabbing his half-full water bottle from the table, Dean stood from his chair and quickly crossed the room. "Here-" He held the bottle out. "Take a quick drink and soothe your throat, dude."

With a shaky hand, Sam reached out and took the bottle. Dean was sure he'd spill all over himself, but despite the fever chills and the tremors the kid managed to keep the water from dribbling down his chin.

"You ok?"

Sam slowly swallowed and lowered the bottle. "Think so." He looked purely miserable. "This sucks."

Suddenly remembering, Dean headed back over to the table and grabbed the small pill bottle with his little brother's name on it. "Take these, get the good drugs into your system."

"Does it say on the bottle how fast acting it is?"

"Sorry. No timetable of healthiness."

Unscrewing the cap, Dean dropped two of the small blue pills into Sam's hand.

The younger man scrutinized the medication closely, frowning. "How can two little pills like this _possibly_ make me feel better?"

"One of the wonders of modern medicine." Turning back towards the table, Dean threw over his shoulder, "Take the pills, Sam"

Sam scowled and mouthed Dean's words back at him sarcastically before tossing the pills into his mouth and taking a drink.

*****************

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Sam shrugged lightly, glancing down at the weathered and yellowed copies of the burial records from St. Agnes Church—which Dean had grabbed, earning a scowl from his younger brother, on the way back from picking up dinner.

The take-out bags were sitting on the bedside table; Sam's tiny ham sandwich on a bun only half eaten, Dean's gravy smothered beef and mushroom sandwich completely devoured.

"An _unmarked grave_? Like…as in absolutely _nothing_?"

Sam gently turned to the next page. "There's an epitaph, but no name."

Dean made a rolling gesture with his hand, motioning for Sam to continue. "Ok?"

"'_I cannot live without books'_"

"That's it?"

"Yeah." Trailing his finger down the frail page, Sam blinked heavily. "_Bereaved widow, Rose Petrakis, chose the above quotation noting in saddened detail how greatly it reminded her of her husband, who was a known admirer of Thomas Edison."_

"Thomas Edison said that?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I thought he invented the light bulb?"

"He did. But he was an _avid_ reader, Dean. He was known to make contributions to libraries and restoration projects—he had a pretty hardcore collection of first editions, too."

"How in the hell do you _know_ that?"

Pulling his eyes from the page, Sam blinked and his cheeks visibly reddened. "I uh…wrote a paper on him my first year at Stanford."

Dean simply stared.

The younger man felt a bad case of the fidgets brewing and forced himself to start talking again "But uh, anyway, that grave shouldn't be too hard to find. Most likely he'll be buried close to the church."

"Right. Back then, devout followers were buried close to the church's foundation because people thought bein' close to the building _itself_ would bring them closer to Heaven."

Sam nodded. "Exactly. The departed soul didn't have too far to go before coming across hallowed ground."

"A direct connection to God."

"Yeah."

Dean sighed, pushing himself from his chair beside Sam's bed.

The sun was in the process of setting and the room was steadily getting darker; neither brother bothered turning on a lamp, Sam's sickly-sensitive eyes nearly burning out of his head the last time they'd tried.

Walking around the end of his bed, Dean reached and grabbed his duffle. "Friggin' freaks, man." He mumbled, yanking the zipper open in one quick move. "So his wife sent him a _dear john_ letter, big deal. Some poor bastards get less than that."

Sam didn't say anything, he just settled further into his blankets.

So Dean, unhindered, just kept on ranting.

"I mean, ok, fine, I get it. It sucks out loud findin' out that your wife is bangin' someone else—but really, was it worth offin' himself? And that record said she was _bereaved_?" He snorted, grabbing a black t-shirt and taking a test sniff. "Yeah, right, whatever."

"She probably didn't think he'd do it."

Sam's voice had been so quiet, Dean immediately snapped his head up to look at him.

Sam was being quiet. That was Dean's first clue to pay closer-than-usual attention.

Which, translated, meant it was time to hover.

Dropping the shirt back into his bag, Dean frowned and made his way back across the room. Sam's eyes were as faraway as anything, lost in his own reflection. "Sammy?" The kid jerked slightly in surprise and then met Dean's gaze. The older brother's frown deepened. "You ok?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You're quiet."

"Just uh…feelin' a little queasy, that's all."

"You take your pills earlier?"

"Yeah-" Raising a hand, he set it gently down over his belly. "They just unsettled my stomach a bit."

Dean studied him for a moment and then sighed, bending down to retrieve the bucket sitting beside the bed "Well, here's your travelin' bucket-" He passed it to Sam, who set it down on the bed beside him. "Just…use that if you can't make it."

Sam nodded, then, "You going?"

"Yeah, might as well. Sun's practically down now, go and get it done." A brief pause. "You gonna be ok?"

"Dean-" Sam swallowed hard; like a nauseous person would do, trying to push back the rising bile. "You're gonna be gone an hour, two tops. I'll be fine."

"I hate leavin' you, man-"

"Then I'll go with you."

Dean snorted again. "I don't think so. If the old coot gets pissy, what're you gonna do, sneeze at him? Blow chunks all over his shoes?"

Sam groaned and made a face, swallowing again. "Dean, don't say "chunks"."

Dean Winchester felt torn on an hourly basis.

The hunter in him knew that the hunt needed to be finished. Petrakis was freaking people out, it was only a matter of time before things got out of hand. That's the way it happened—a spirit starts off acting like a poltergeist, throwing things around, causing general chaos. But eventually? It escalates. The chaos gets violent and someone dies; maybe a shelf will fall on some poor schmuck trying to study, or a cute little coed will get trapped in the downstairs storeroom and suffocate---

_Whoever said that people, generally, have beautiful minds? Never met me._

But then, there was the _other_ part of him. The big brother…which almost _always_ clashed with the hunter.

Sam was sick—throwing up, coughing, sneezing all over _everything_. He still had a fever, too. Dean's practiced eye had picked that up right away. If there was one thing that big brother Dean absolutely hated, it was leaving Sammy alone when he was sick. What if he needed help getting to the washroom and there was no one there? What if the fever made him feel cold and he was too tired or sore to reach for a blanket? Or what if he was thirsty and couldn't find a drink of water?

What if he started choking?

_Hunter: The hunt needs to be finished._

_Brother: Yeah, but Sammy's sick. I need to be here._

_Hunter: You'll be back in an hour, two if things get crazy._

_Brother: But that'll still be __two friggin' hours__ the kid is on his own._

There was no way at all to compromise. No agreements to be made within himself to make the situation less terrifying.

It was like having a second personality, an alter ego, hangin' out on his shoulder. But instead of having it in the form of a little devil, it was in the form of a little floating shotgun.

_Dammit._

Sam, who'd been watching him the whole time, quirked an eyebrow. "Having a conversation with yourself?"

"Yeah."

"_And_?"

"I'm a pain in my own ass."

Sam chuckled gently, still massaging his upset stomach. "Seriously, Dean, just go. I'm probably just gonna sleep anyway."

Dean made a face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can't do much else."

Grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt, Dean pulled it off quickly and went back to rooting through his bag. He glanced at his brother. "No goin' out, no answerin' the door, no nothing."

"Dean-"

"I mean it, Sam." Finding the black t-shirt that he'd discovered a few minutes before, which smelled just a little fresher, his pulled it on and adjusted his amulet, pulling it out from under the material. "Don't get up unless you're goin' to the bathroom."

"Aren't you afraid I'll flush myself away?"

"Don't be a smartass."

Sam smiled softly and snuggled further into bed. "I promise. I won't move unless I have to."

"Bathroom only?"

A small nod. "Bathroom only."

"Good." Patting down his pockets, Dean located his wallet—full of fake ID's—and his cell phone. The shotguns, matches, shovel, salt and salt rounds were all in the car, so all he was missing was…

"Your jacket's hanging on the chair over there."

Dean sent his brother a small appreciative smile and headed over to the table, grabbing the leather jacket and quickly slipping it over his shoulders.

The smell of the old leather was soothing and he instantly felt better. The weight of the material was familiar…it was one of his many armors. If _sleeping_ in that jacket was socially acceptable, he'd never take it off—it was a connection to their dad, to his sacrificed childhood.

It was a part of him.

Feeling considerably sappy, but hiding it perfectly, he let out a breath and swiped the car keys from the surface of the table.

The Impala.

Another thing that was part of him.

"You want me to call when I'm on my way back?"

Sam let out a small cough, slowly nodding his head. "Yeah, I got my phone."

"You need anything while I'm out? Cough candies? Another couple cases of kleenex?"

"Cough candies." Then tentatively, "Jerk."

Not even a beat passed before Dean threw back, "Bitch."

There was a warm smile on the older brother's face when he finally left the room, keeping his eyes on the Sammy shaped lump of blankets until the closed door finally blocked his vision.

Sam hadn't said the words out loud, but Dean had felt them in the air.

_Be careful._

************

When Dean had first slid into the Impala at the motel it had only been a light mist. A gentle brush of moisture in the air that, in its own way, was somewhat refreshing after the heat of the afternoon.

But by the time he brought the car to a gentle stop outside the black wrought iron gates of St. Agnes Church, it was like the friggin' skies had opened up.

Heavy rain, bone-rattling cracks of thunder and flashes of lightening.

_Fan-freakin'-tastic._

He didn't even bother trying to stay dry, it was pointless. Stripping off his leather jacket, he left it sitting in the passenger seat and climbed from the car, the water instantly soaking his black t-shirt. Goosebumps erupted on his arms as he popped the trunk, quickly lifting the heavy wooden plank and revealing the car's elaborate weapon's locker.

A single sawed-off shotgun, loaded with rock salt.

The truly ginormous container of salt.

A shovel.

Two books of matches (because he had a better chance of getting struck by lightening in his ass than he did of lighting it the first time) and the small squeeze bottle of lighter fluid.

Dean stuffed everything into an empty duffle bag—all except the shovel, which he held tightly in his hand.

It was almost like he'd gone back in time two years; travelling and driving on his own…hunting on his own. Even though he knew that Sam was back at the motel suffering and sickly in bed, it was still strange.

Since Sam's impromptu return to the hunt, the brothers had hardly let each other's side. They drove together, ate together…each man could only fall asleep when he had his brother's presence in the darkness. After such a long time apart, both of them enjoyed the familiar company.

Even though they never said it out loud.

Leaving the Impala parked directly outside the cemetery's main gates, Dean made his way over to the gate and strained to push it open.

His hands slipped and slid on the wet iron, the metal cold enough to send an ache down into his bones.

The horrendous creak of the hinges was silenced by the crack of thunder and Dean spat a few colorful curses, his hair hanging soaking wet, water droplets practically pouring down his face.

The grass of the cemetery was virtually a sink hole judging from the deep boot prints that trailed behind him.

Remembering the conversation he'd had with Sam before leaving, he ventured closer to the church, scanning the few gravestones that were positioned there.

He pulled up his flashlight in his free hand, the small beam of light cascading over the worn stones and century old lettering.

_Melville Thompson, 1802 – 1860, 'Loving husband and father'._

_Anita Benis, 1815 – 1902,'Rremembered and loved for always'._

One gravestone, which was absolutely enormous, had on it the longest epitaph Dean had ever seen. Curious, he naturally _had_ to stop to read it. He squinted through the torrential rain.

_Benjamin Austin, 1799 – 1854, 'Thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stolen forth from holy writ; and seem a saint, when most I play the devil.'_

He raised his eyebrows.

_Ouch._

_That_ poor son of a bitch hadn't been very popular.

Pulling his eyes from Austin's grave, he let out a breath and took another look around.

Dean didn't mind being alone in cemeteries, it wasn't like the atmosphere bothered him. After all there wasn't much in the world that he was afraid of—and ghosts and graveyard spooks weren't even _close_ to being on the list. But that didn't stop him from wishing that Sam was there with him. His little brother's company made all the difference; especially when it was pissing down rain and generally miserable.

Stumbling over yet another stone, Dean crouched down in front of it and swept his flashlight across the engraving.

Yahtzee.

_'I cannot live without books'_

"Hey there, Georgie."

Dean flung the duffle bag off his shoulder, plonking it down into the mud in front of him. The shovel was lying next to his foot and when he opened the bag, the first thing he grabbed was the shotgun.

The cemetery was quiet, but safe didn't always mean _safe_.

The sound as Dean cocked the shotgun echoed through the rain and he instantly felt better. He knew that if he had to he could grab the weapon and fire it within only a few seconds—he'd trained himself to be fast. Mere seconds could change the outcome, could determine whether a hunt ended happily or bloody.

"Heard you've been causin' trouble at the library." Dean said conversationally as another flash of lightening lit up the sky. "Can't have that, now can we?"

Tossing the bag to the side, Dean grabbed the shovel and stood up straight.

He broke ground only a few seconds later, grunting and straining from the effort of shoveling mud. It took no time at all for his muscles to start quivering from the effort.

And once again he wished Sam was with him.

_Not_ sickly, and able to take a turn with the goddamn shovel.

***************

Sam's eyes opened slowly and he was instantly aware of it.

The rolling of his stomach and the relentless pounding in his head.

He was afraid to move, nervous of pissing either body part off.

The overhead light was on in the room and Sam sleepily frowned, not able to remember whether or not he'd left it on when he'd fallen asleep.

"You feelin' ok?"

To say that the yelp that escaped Sam's lips at the sudden familiar voice was embarrassing would've been an understatement. He instantly felt himself blush, his eyes falling on Dean who was lying across the end of the bed.

Sam swallowed and nodded slightly. "Yeah, I'm ok."

Dean had his head propped on one bent arm, a muscle car magazine spread out in front of him. It was hard to miss the split lip, which was an angry red, and the bruised skin around his right eye that would bloom into one hell of a shiner come the morning.

Apparently, George Petrakis wasn't as much as a geriatric as the older brother had predicted.

"How 'bout you?" Sam asked in a near whisper, his voice raspy. "How'd the hunt go?"

"It was fine. The old book worm is toast."

"He throw you around?"

Dean shrugged faintly. "He didn't wanna vacate, so yeah, he was a little pissed off."

"You hurt anywhere else?"

Dean shifted slightly, trapping Sam's leg under his other arm. One of his thousand versions of _I'm here_.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy." He said, without even looking up from his magazine.

And Sam knew, right then, that his brother _was _hurt somewhere else…but it would take Hell freezing over for the older man to spill the details. Dean could be bleeding, shivering, throwing up and coughing all at once, but he'd still be the martyr…the one to always feel the pain but swallow it.

Sacrificial jerk.

But with Dean's weight sitting protectively over his blanket-covered leg, Sam couldn't find it in him to complain. After all, his brother was there, alive, and as cheeky as always.

Now if he could just get rid of his god forsaken flu, he could take care of Dean.

Sam very nearly snorted.

_Yeah, right._

_I'd probably have to knock him out first…_

He couldn't help but smile, watching as Dean contentedly flipped the page of the magazine. Sam couldn't make out the model of the car whose color picture took up the entire layout, but the look of pure desire that overcame Dean's face was priceless.

Yeah.

His brother was just fine.

He was _still_ a sacrificial jerk, though.


End file.
